Buffet

There’s this pancake joint at the edge of town that I frequent in the small hours of the morning when I’m too bored to stay at home and too wired to sleep. It’s not even that good. In fact, I tried the rival chain across the street and I actually enjoyed it more.

            Something always calls me back to this specific place, though. It’s not the pancakes. Definitely not the pancakes. Most of the time they’re still half-batter when the plate hits the table of my usual corner booth that could seat six but only ever seats two.

            It’s certainly not the staff. They act with as much tact and grace as anyone working graveyard shifts does, except they’ve somehow found a way to be less enthusiastic about it. The only good thing about them is that they act as a constant reminder that my life could be a whole lot worse.

            They come from all over. Most of them are Mexican, of course, but there’s also a German woman and an Albanian man, neither of whom have gotten a complete grasp on American culture and customs. The German woman has always struck me as the type to be a dominatrix in one of those European BDSM houses. She looks like she had the required foxiness and unorthodox beauty to fit the part when she was younger.

            My favorite of all of them is the constantly strung-out teenaged girl called Ruby. She never seems to know where she is or what she’s doing. I call her the “and a show” part of my dinner and a show.

            The condition of the place is desperately lacking as well. It’s part of a big and famous national chain that got some screen time in a few big budget movies, but it seems like the corporate offices forgot about this location when they were upgrading the look of all of their franchises.

            It’s still got the same mustard-yellow wallpaper that it had when mustard-yellow wallpaper was last considered acceptable, which was at least thirty years ago based on the missing flakes and decrepit nature of it all.

            Honestly, if I were the CEO of the whole company I’d have made a special point to forget about this place too, solely because of the owner. His name is Buster, a name he pronounces “Busthter” on account of the large gaps in his mouth where teeth should be. He’s probably the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met. He’s racist, misogynistic, and - despite the miraculous survival of his business – irreconcilably stupid.

            “Them niggers that run th’ comp’ny want plathes like thisth t’die off,” Buster told me once when he was so short-staffed that he had to serve me food. “They ain’t got the sthame focusth on usth sthmaller franchisthesth anymore.”

            I’ve done a lot of research on this chain, mostly because my line of work gives me an exorbitant amount of free time. I know for a fact that the higher ups are actually Jewish and not, as Buster tries so hard to believe, black. I told him as much when he talked to me next.

            “Ah don’t matter,” he said, waving a withered hand dismissively. “Kikesth isth justh olive sthkinned niggersth.”

            What really brings me back here, and not somewhere classier with less “riff-raff”, is the kinds of people that walk through the door. Every time a junkie with mad-dog eyes sits down at a table next to me, I remember that you just can’t beat the selection of people who come into pancake joints at one in the morning.

            This is mostly because there is no good reason for wanting breakfast food after noon and before 4 in the morning. You’re either drunk, severely depressed, destitute, going through some shit, or some variation thereof. If you’re in a pancake joint in the part of the 24-hour day that no one is excited for, you’ve got some issues running through your head.

            For a telepath like me, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.

            Tonight I came by myself and was disappointed by the selection. Ruby is working, which is at least a little fun, but the rest of the crew is made up of high-school kids, who are usually too young to have done anything interesting that I can read into and are almost always thinking about sex and alcohol, which is only interesting until you’ve heard about exactly three of their “epic keggers”.

            I’ve been sitting down for a few minutes when a derelict-looking man who looks like he’s never heard the word “shave” used in a sentence sits down opposite me.

            Hank has changed a lot since he taught me in 1^st Grade. Back then he was a fresh-faced Irish-Catholic kid straight out of University. I suppose I’m more than a little responsible for his current appearance, seeing as I was the one who ruined his career all of those years ago.

            It was within the first few weeks of 1^st Grade, I was maybe 6 or 7. I was one of those “trouble kids” you hear about whenever teachers share their battle scars. I never wanted to sit still and whenever I did I’d never shut up.

            Hank was a few months removed from graduating Magna Cum Laude from the University of North Texas with an Education Masters. He could have had any job he wanted, but he had a special passion for teaching young children. He took the first vacant 1^st Grade position he could find and ended up teaching me my basic math and grammar.

            To his credit, he did an outstanding job of it. He had “Teacher of the Year” written all over him from Day One, but the class – more specifically me – seemed to want to make sure he earned it.

            One day I’d found out how fun pulling on little Susie Jenkins’ ponytail was. Hank, then known to me as Mr. Kennedy, told me to stop repeatedly. After I didn’t he went through the process that he’d learned in school for dealing with my kind of situation, which ended up in him dragging me out into the hallway to lecture me on how I should play nice with others.

            I continued my campaign of rebellion outside of the classroom. Hank kept telling me that I needed to calm down and I kept responding to his increasingly desperate pleas with what he’d later call a “shitty little smile”. After he realized that he wasn’t getting through to me, he hung his head and sighed deeply.

            And that’s when I first heard it. Even though his mouth was visibly expelling a sigh, I heard Hank Kennedy think.

            He had thought “all the kids that have been aborted and this one had to avoid the coathanger.”

            I asked my parents what “aborted” meant that night and was told to explain where I’d learned that word. My fuming mother and father marched me into school the next day, bursting into the Principal’s office and demanding that he fire Hank on the spot. The look on Hank’s face when my mother shouted what he’d thought to himself the day before was priceless. I remind him of it constantly.

            “So what’s everyone thinking today, sport?” Hank asks me while looking over the menu.

            “A few are asking when this place turned into a soup kitchen,” I reply, examining Hank’s tattered green coat. Hank ignores the comment.

            “Any emotionally damaged chicks I can take advantage of?” he asks. If I tried, I could probably find the answer to this question fairly easily. I’m certainly not above using my ability to get someone laid, but I enjoy screwing with Hank more than I do seeing him together with someone.

            “Uncle Ben,” I tell him sagely. This is in reference to that one line in Spiderman about power and responsibility. If I felt compelled to help people, it’s probably the mantra by which I’d live my life. As it stands, it’s just a convenient way to kill Hank’s carnal dreams.

            Hank shakes his head and keeps on reading the menu.

            “The Big Breakfast?” I ask after reading his thoughts and seeing that he’s dwelling on the most expensive meal on the menu.

            “I’m hungry,” Hank mumbles. Hank is never hungry, a side effect of the crippling alcoholism he’s been sustaining since he had his teaching license revoked. I look deeper into his thoughts.

            “Two weeks sober,” I say. “I’d congratulate you but it was hardly by choice, was it?”

            “Fuck off, kid,” Hank snarls. “You’re the reason I’m in this mess in the first place.”

            This is the line Hank uses whenever I start to criticize his habit. It’s the last bit of “high ground” over me that he has left, mainly because there’s a bit of truth in it.

            “Right,” I say, “because I’ve forced you to drink a 12-pack of Bud Light a night since I was 10.”

Hank glares at me over his menu. My favorite thing about our relationship is how he just has to think about shooting me the bird for me to get the message.

A waitress steps up to our table. She’s new, which is always an interesting experience. I do a quick scan of her. She’s got one of those new-age punk haircuts; closely shorn on both sides of her head with the middle still long and pulled back into a ponytail.

“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” she asks. Of course I get stuck with a fucking hobo on the first table of the night, she thinks.

I read a little deeper. She just got scheduled on a bunch of graveyard shifts because she started shouting at a family of four during a breakfast shift for only tipping 5%.

Hank waves his hand dismissively, I see a muscle twitch in the new waitresses’ face.

“A few more minutes then?” she asks. I’m gonna spit in this motherfucker’s food, she thinks.

“I’m actually ready to order now,” I say. “Breakfast Sampler with Coke, please.”

“How would you like your eggs?” she asks. This asshole is getting spit too, she thinks.

“Spit-free,” I say, unable to resist. She and Hank give me quizzical looks. “Sorry, scrambled, please. And a Big Breakfast for him, Sunny side up.”

“Okay, we’ll have it right out,” she says slowly as she takes the menus. He orders for him? God, a fag and a hobo and it’s not even 2 o’clock, she thinks.

I quickly grab Hank’s hand and massage the top of it with my thumb. The waitress notices and walks away as quickly as she can without looking like she’s in a rush. I follow her with my eyes until she disappears into the kitchen.

“The hand,” Hank says. I look down to notice that I’m still grasping his hand.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling away. “She thought we were gay so I ran with it.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the silverware I always bring from home. I don’t trust the dishwashers here after reading how they feel about their jobs.

“Spit-free?” Hank asks, still wearing a slightly confused expression.

“It’s good to specify when I’m eating with you,” I reply. 

“So the new girl,” Hank shifts.

“You want to know all about her?” I ask. He nods. “Why? So you can try to impress her by buying her a case of Natty Light and giving her a tour of that closet you call an apartment?”

“Are you done?” Hank asks without a change of expression. Years and years of my brand of critique has numbed him to its effect. I bet most people would have stopped trying to get through to him by now, but I just see it as a good vent.

Really it’s a wonder that he still keeps hanging around me. I guess it’s not that he wants to be in my company, he just knows that no one else will talk to him anymore. He looks about fifteen years older than he actually is and at least that many years closer to his death.

I sigh. Every night, except for the rare occasions when Hank finally has enough and storms out, eventually ends up in me actually using my power for Hank’s entertainment. Most of the time I can hold off until our meals come out.

“The new girl,” I say, seeing that our waitress has stepped back out of the kitchen. I start digging as deep as I can. “Hailey Melrose. 18. Dropped out of Plano West in Junior Year. Now lives with her 26-year old half-hispanic boyfriend who sells pot out of his job in a meat market a few blocks from here. Crippling fear of spiders. Got pregnant at homecoming during sophomore year, got rid of it by riding the Texas Giant as Six Flags. Last two boyfriends are in prison for armed robbery.”

“Bad luck,” Hank says.

“Not really,” I say. “It was the same incident. They were – oh wow – they were brothers. And she was with them at the same time.”

“Doesn’t look the type,” Hank says.

“That’s because you can’t see her tramp stamp,” I say. “It’s a fairy.” I point to a table across the restaurant. “Over there. Woman in the pink and white striped shirt with bleached blonde hair reaching into her fake Prada bag. 56, divorcee, just got dumped by her most recent latin lover because ‘joo are like a blow-up doll, senora.’”

“56?” Hanks says. “From here she doesn’t look a day over 30.”

“From here,” I stress. “She’s got ‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBA stuck in her head. No one under 40 actually listens to ABBA anymore.”

“What if it’s the…”

“It’s not the Mama Mia version,” I interrupt. “I checked.”

Before Hank can reply, the woman turns around towards us, revealing a face that looks as though it’s been repeatedly assaulted with a leatherbound collection of botched plastic surgeries. Hank straightens up in his seat and does his best to avoid making eye contact with the woman.

“So,” he says quickly. “What about daddy issues over there in the corner?” I turn to look at who Hank is referring to.

There’s a girl sitting in in a corner booth to my right. She’s wearing a black leather jacket over a white wifebeater and a pair of jeans that wouldn’t look out of place at the end of an industrial paper shredder. All of this is over the top of a remarkably small frame and capped with a completely shaved head.

“This is going to be good,” I say. I start to dig as deep as I can.

I hear someone thinking inside this girl’s head, but I know it’s not her. I’ve hear that voice whenever I’m in need of a quick laugh. It’s Ruby’s voice, that distinct, vacant tone that’s usually thinking about toenail polish and pink socks.

God, Ruby thinks. Look at this walking fashion disaster over here. Oh my god, is this even a girl? She looks like a boy. I should tell her she looks like a boy.

I turn to look at Hank. Maybe my power is on the fritz or something. Maybe I’m just not focusing.

What the hell? Why’s he suddenly look so frantic? Hank thinks. It’s not me, then. It’s this girl. She can read minds too. I turn and look back at her.

Why does she even have a leather jacket, Ruby thinks. This is Texas. She doesn’t even need a leather jacket. It’s like 86 degrees outside. I should tell her she doesn’t need a leather jacket.

Ruby’s thoughts are suddenly cut silent. I notice that the girl has noticed me staring at her. She’s got this contemptuous look set on her face that I’ve only ever seen before on nature documentaries about highly venomous snakes.

The fuck do you want, someone else thinks. This must actually be her.

How did you read her mind? I think. The girl’s eyes widen suddenly. The look of contempt is replaced with one of alarm.

Who are you? she thinks abruptly.

Who am I? Who the hell are you? I think.

“What’s going on?” Hank asks, perhaps noticing the sudden change of expression on both of our faces.

Shut up, Hank, I think.

Who the fuck’s Hank? she thinks.

Sorry, I think.

“Shut up, Hank,” I say aloud.

That’s Hank, I think.

Is he with you? she thinks. I look at Hank discerningly.

Well... not “with me”, per se, I think.

Who are you with?

Who am I with?
            FBI? CIA? How did you find me?

Whoah, whoah, what? Why would the Feds want to find you?

I can read minds, fuckwad. Why do you fucking think they want to find me?

Well I can read minds. they aren’t after me.

Yeah, well maybe you didn’t tell anyone about it like most of us did.

I told Hank.

You told a homeless guy.

He’s got an apartment.

Who the hell are you with?
            I’m not with anyone.

Bullshit.

I’m not.

We’ve all found ways to make a quick buck out of this. You’re with someone.

Really, I’m not.

I don’t have time for this. She stands up out of her seat, the fierce look back on her face, and storms past my corner booth.

Wait! I think. She keeps walking as I realize she can’t hear me unless she wants to.

“Wait!” I call out. She turns on her heel and fixes me with the same contemptuous look.

We can… I don’t know, team up or something? She starts to laugh derisively.

Un-fucking-likely. You’re on your own, she thinks. She turns back around and storms out of the restaurant.

“What the hell,” Hank says, “did I just watch?”

“She could… read minds,” I say. Hank looks at me as if this is some kind of unheard-of phenomena. “No really. She could.”

“What’d she say?” Hank asks.

“She said there were others but… I was on my own,” I say.

I think about this for a second. Am I on my own? I can’t be. I know so much about so many people. I can get through someone’s entire life story over dinner without even having to say a word to them.

But they know nothing to me. Hank doesn’t even know anything. He hasn’t even called me by my first name since he was y teacher. He just hangs around me because no one else but me will take the bullet.

Oh god. I’m on my own.